


Metaphorically, I'm the Man

by abscission



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, not an enforcement of gender roles, satirical-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:53:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8137990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abscission/pseuds/abscission
Summary: He sets down the teacup he just picked up, a determined gleam taking to his eyes. “You want to talk masculinity, Alfred? Let’s."
Alfred was unfazed. “You snap at my ankles about the cat, your horde the cleaning materials like it’s the survival kit for the zombie apocalypse, you set rules about eating in the bedroom, should I go on?”
“That’s called ‘responsibility’. I’m quite sure I hammered it into you several hundred years ago. Have they dropped out of your brain like everything else?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> hopefully my writing will get better.
> 
> Scotland - Alistair  
> N. Ireland - Sean  
> Ireland - Saoirse  
> Wales - Rhys
> 
> This is a de-anon from kink-meme with the prompt: USUK, arguing over who tops.

Arthur  _knows_  Francis is bad news,  _knows_  it, deep in the cells of his bone marrow, so why did he agree to this?  
  
“—and then he starts grumbling and being all old-and-wise and stiff-upper-lip and whatever not and,” Alfred stops to take a breather then plunges back in, putting on horrible British accent, “‘gender-approximation plays no role in our relationship, I hope you understand that, Alfred.’ he says, and Jesus Christ, Francis, I know! What does he think he has to prove?”  
  
As once, they look to Arthur, who meets their stares warily over his teacup. “What?”  
  
Francis looks back at Alfred, fingers steepled in front of his face. “But surely you’re curious? About who fills a particular role more, at least.”  
  
“Huh?” Alfred takes a huge gulp of his Pepsi. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Who’s the male and the female in your relationship,” Francis says smoothly, leaning back on the couch and folding his arms. His expression turned smug as he glanced at Arthur. “Who tops, in other words.”  
  
It takes Alfred a total of half a second to answer.  
  
“Obviously it’s me!”  
  
The words hang in the living room air for a little bit. Francis looks pleased as a cat that’s caught the canary.  
  
Arthur puts down his teacup. “No, it’s not.”  
  
“Is too!” Alfred pulls a face at him and addresses Francis, counting off his fingers. "What are we going by here, height? I’m taller! Body build? I’m more buff! Successful tries? I’m  _way_  ahead of him!”  
  
“—Hey,” Arthur intervenes, trying to stop the situation from deteriorating, but Francis, that  _bloody sod_ , is already nodding and replying.  
  
“ _Oui, oui,_  but Arthur is older,  _non_? Also more experienced. He could be doing it because he’s always topped, before. Or—“  
  
“No,” Alfred cuts in, blue eyes flashing seriously. “no. You know why? Let’s analyze the situation.”  
  
Arthur groans. It’ll be another one of Alfred’s nonsensical leaps of logic. God help him.  
  
Francis smirks and reaches for a macaroon.   
  
“So first, apparel. I dress extremely casually. For example, this shirt?” Alfred tugs at his shirtfront, drawing their attention the Wildcats logo emblazoned across fabric. “It was the first thing I pulled out from the wardrobe. The pants? Yesterday’s. My underwear? Yesterday’s. I—“  
  
“That only means you’re a lazy slob,” Arthur interrupts, “if anything, it means you’re a hopeless hobo who wouldn’t survive without me being there to help you.”  
  
“Yeah whatever,” Alfred waves it away, “but at least I’m not like you. You stand in front of the mirror for ten minutes everyday, picking out the right sweater and socks and—“  
  
“I care about my appearance, so?”  
  
“It’s girly! Or at least womanly!”  
  
“Francis spends  _half-an hour_  styling his  _hair_  and you call  _me_  ‘girly?” Arthur, still seated, jerks his chin in a spasm towards the frog, who has stolen his tea.  
  
“Psh, he’s different, he’s French, he’s got an excuse.”  
  
“—oh, so wanting to appear presentable isn’t an excuse?”  
  
“You have five V-necked sleeveless sweaters and the only difference is that some is checkered and some is plaid.”  
  
“Argyle! Not checkered!  _Argyle!_ ” Arthur groaned at the same time Rhys’ voice drifts from the kitchen, exasperated and world-weary, “It’s pla _i_ d, pla- _i_ -d, please pronounce it properly, Alfred, I’m talking to you!"  
  
Alfred promptly ignores both. “And then you spend the next five minutes choosing a jacket, of all things!”  
  
“Yeah, like I said, 'presentability’."  
  
“Arthur, dear, you have ten of those things,” Alfred looks at him worriedly over the rim of his glasses, adopting the air of an exasperated grandmother. “they’re all tweed.”  
  
Arthur bristles. “What's your point?”  
  
“My point is, you dress like a stereotypical girl and I dress like a stereotypical man. Francis, are you aware of how many layers he can put on?” Alfred starts counting off. “Vest, shirt, sweater, jacket, scarf—it goes on!”  
  
“In my defense, it’s cold here in Britain. It rains five days out of seven,” Arthur deadpans, then snatches back his teacup and goes for a refill. “I’d say I dress like a respectable middle-class citizen with a healthy amount of trepidation in relation to the weather. What about you?”  
  
Alfred licked his lips, “I still say I’m the man in apparel.”  
  
As Arthur strode back to the couch, he met Francis’ eyes. The latter is trying very hard not to laugh.  
  
“Alright,” Arthur concedes, “what’s your next point, Professor Jones?”  
  
Alfred clears his throat in a self-important manner. “Hem-hem. Secondly, behavior. He’s particularly anal in his scorn of dust. He cleans like a madman. Possessed!”  
  
Alfred opens his eyes wide and throws up his arms so hard he jostles Texas.   
  
Francis coughs to hide a snort. “ _Anal_.”  
  
“Yeah!” Alfred ploughs on, the pun sailing right over his head. “You know he wears an apron? It’d be endearing, but that’s quite a womanly thing to do, right, cleaning the house? Have I told you about that time I caught him under the bed?"  
  
“Yes please go on Alfred—“ Francis begins gleefully, only to be cut off with a forceful “No!” from Arthur, who is quite red in the face, now.  
  
He sets down the teacup he just picked up, a determined gleam taking to his eyes. “You want to talk masculinity, Alfred? Let’s."  
  
Alfred was unfazed. “You snap at my ankles about the cat, your horde the cleaning materials like it’s the survival kit for the zombie apocalypse, you set rules about eating in the bedroom, should I go on?”  
  
“That’s called ‘responsibility’. I’m quite sure I hammered it into you several hundred years ago. Have they dropped out of your brain like everything else?”  
  
“Nothing 'dropped out' of my brain!” Alfred protests, “I  _am_  responsible! I walk the cat, I clean the basement, I arrange the shelves, I’m not just  _anal_ about it!”  
  
Francis bursts into muffled guffaws.  
  
“Shut yer trap, frog,” Arthur snaps, “The cat doesn’t need to be walked. The basement has nothing but your junk, it’s only fitting that you clean it. The shelves are full of your comics.”  
  
“So?"  
  
Arthur slaps a hand over his eyes and says, almost grievously, “…I’m dating a man-child.  _Why_?"  
  
“A man-child you fuck,” Alfred grins, making finger guns at the Briton, then at the scandalized look from Arthur, seems to receive an epiphany and snaps his fingers. “Hey!  _Fucking_! I totally pwn that part, ha!”   
  
“We do not talk about those things in the  _living room_!” Arthur hisses, hair on end like a startled cat, and Francis doubles over from the effort of laughing silently.  
  
“Okay. Alright.  You accede that point to me. Also you suck really well. But! Let’s talk family,” Alfred allows, “You're the one with the piss-y hard-to-please in-laws."  
  
Arthur opens and closes his mouth, grappling for something to shoot back at Alfred, but the American looks so smug, if smugness was measurable the lever would’ve shot to the moon. He continues.  
  
“List-y time! Alistair would kill to get away from you. Saoirse already had. Rhys is suffering from the lack of freedom to express his love for sheep and leeks. Sean is…I don’t know what he’s doing. The food y’all make conspires to kill the entire human population. On the other hand! Matthew is the sweetest brother to grace the surface of Earth. Ha!”  
  
“Can’t argue with him there,  _Angleterre_."  
  
“I think you take after your brothers too, and so by sheer principle I win. Also y’all have the same taste in clothing. Matthew is awesome, even if he does like maple leaves a little too much."  
  
At this Arthur seems to be shaken back to earth.  
  
“My brother wears  _skirts_!” he shrieks, as Alfred tuts (“Exactly.”) and Francis brays with laughter. “ _And nothing underneath!"_  
  
“What.” The door bangs open with a resounding crash, and the trio swivels around as one. “Is going on here.”  
  
Alistair stands in the doorway, cigarette hanging between his teeth, green eyes flashing as he takes in the scene.  
  
“ _Mon cher!”_  Francis manages to straighten himself, fanning the air in front of his face, then delivers a blinding smile. “Just, having a domestic spat."

**Author's Note:**

> title from twenty-one pilots. it's quite out of context. it's funny.


End file.
